Little Miss Muse AKA Writer's Block
by Sage Girl
Summary: Spike's having trouble writing his biography, when he meets his muse...


  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any these characters (Except for Cleo, she's mine.)! Joss does (Although, if he'd   
be willing to give me Spike…) Anyway, don't sue me, I'm only borrowing, I promise the characters won't   
be harmed…too much.  
Rating: PG   
Spoilers: None. Well, I don't think so anyway.  
Feedback: Can be sent to Drusdollie@hotmail.com   
A/N: This is my first Humor fanfiction. It kinda came to me 'cause I thought the idea of Spike writing a   
book about his life would be hilarious!   
  
  
  
  
Alright, so obviously most wouldn't expect to see Spike with a stack of notebooks beside him on one of the   
sarcophagi in his crypt, one of them opened in front of him. Well, the fact of the matter is, A) Spike was   
determined to write a biography of sorts. And B) He couldn't convince one stupid human to give up their   
laptop. So, notebooks it was.  
  
Now, if only he could figure out how to start the thing, from then on it would be fairly easy.  
"It was the year 1880…" He pondered that opening for a moment, writing it down then quickly scratching   
it out, "That would be just bloody wonderful! It'd have people snoring in no time!" He growled,   
threatening to throw the notebook acrossed the room.   
  
He'd already tried the poetic approach (Which crashed and burned.), the exciting approach, and now the   
history channel approach, as it would be called. This just wasn't working, of course; at least it passed the   
time until he could get his television fixed, That was basically another main reason he was writing it.   
  
"Why don't you just try writing without thinking?" A voice asked him, it was high and maybe even a bit   
tinkerbell-ish. He turned to see a little girl attired in a peculiar looking dress of sorts, kinda reminded him   
of Tinkerbell or one of those other little fairy things.   
"Who the hell are you?" He questioned, eyebrow quirked.  
"I'm your muse silly!" The little girl answered, "I'm here to help you with all your writing problems."   
She grinned at him, big green eyes sparkling.  
"My bloody muse is a little bloody girl!?!?!" He exclaimed forlornly, taking this as a sign that he was   
going soft.  
"I'm not a little girl." She replied snappishly, "I'm an elf, see" She motioned towards her ears, which after   
further investigation are tapered like elven ears, "Pointy ears equals elf. Shortness factor equals elf as well.   
And the names Cleodina, but you can call me Cleo." She grinned again, hopping up to sit beside him.  
  
"Also, you may not know this, but most muses are elves, fairies, pixies, you know, run of the mill beings   
like that." She told him, grabbing the notebook away before he could attempt to stop her.  
"Hmmm…" She sighed, reading over what little was there, "You really are having problems writing." She   
stated, handing the notebook back.  
"Bloody right! The sodding thing's difficult to write!" He growled, throwing the notebook acrossed the   
room.  
"Hey! There's no need for that! Besides, the problem isn't your writing skills –of course, they could use   
some work also- it's the way you're trying to write. Your trying to fit it into a mold…Which only worked   
like once. And "Interview with the Vampire" is an exception…That vampire's story was…Less gruesome."   
She smirked again, hopping off the sarcophagi to pace.  
"Yeah, well, your forgetting the fact luv, that those vampires aren't real. I am." He snapped back, the   
little pixie (or whatever she was) getting on his nerves.  
"Nope, they're incredibly real! Have you ever thought that Anne Rice got her hands on Louis's story and   
tinkered with it a bit? Or he asked for her to write it, not wanting to publicly announce his presence   
himself?" She raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms while she paced.   
"Bloody Hell!" He cursed, lunging for the petite elven figure. She dodged, giggling all the while as he   
clutched his temples in pain.  
  
She wagged her finger, shaking her head as well, "Not a good idea, Spike." She told him, "I'm a   
supernatural being…But, I'm not a demon." She smiled, her golden curls coming to rest upon her shoulders   
once again.  
He muttered something under his breath, glaring at Cleo. She was oblivious to it, as usual. Having gone   
back into her pondering mode.  
"Now, I take it you weren't going to have any part of your mort-- -Excuse me - human life in here? Since,   
well, let's face it, you weren't that interesting." She shrugged, glancing at Spike, who sat cross-legged on   
the sarcophagi once again.   
"Sod the whole bloody thing! I give up, if writing this stupid book means I have to deal with you," He   
paused for an unneeded breath, "I'd rather end up like Peaches." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting   
one.  
"Now, now, what kind of muse would I be if I let you quit?" Cleo replied impishly, pacing the room   
again.   
"A bloody wonderful one!?!" Spike snapped, flicking the ashes on the floor. She giggled, walking over   
to lean her elbows on the edge of the cover.  
"Nope, wrong answer…Can't let ya do that! But, I promise when you're all ready to write something   
worth writing, I'll leave you alone." She held out her hand, "Pinky swear." She gave him an innocent little   
smile.  
"Might as well go back to your little elf world luv," Spike answered, "I'm not writing another   
sentence…ever." He blew smoke into her face, making her cough and gag.  
"Jeez, you could be a little more civil! I'm only trying to help!" She pouted, her lower lip quivering.   
"Does helping in your book mean annoying the hell out of somebody?" He asked coldly, jumping off the   
sarcophagi.  
"Well, in your case," She paused, glaring, "Maybe!" She climbed up onto the cover, facing him, and   
poking him in the chest.  
"Maybe it's the only way I can get through to you, mister 'I'm a big bad, just 'cause I swagger around in   
a leather duster and act like I own the world.' ever thought of that? Maybe your imagination needs to be   
jogged! Maybe I need to get your creative juices going by getting you pissed off!" At every possible reason   
she poked him with her forefinger in the chest harder.   
"Bloody Hell!" He growled, backing away so she couldn't poke at him any longer, "I won't bag the   
bloody book! Does that make you happy Chloe?" He questioned snappishly.  
"CLEO!" She shrieked, "The names Cleo." She corrected, hopping down.  
  
"Fine!" He answered, "So if you're a muse, tell me how to start the bloody thing." He ordered, pacing   
around the room, Cleo at his heels.  
"Can't do that, besides, I've given you advice! Write without thinking. Worked for Shakespeare… or so   
I've heard. And not some 'It was a dark and stormy night' kind of speel either. They don't go over well."   
She answered, walking back over to his makeshift writing area.   
"And how do I go about writing the sodding thing, if I don't know what to write about?"  
"You're making this tougher than it should have to be! But, fine, I'll help you. Got any part of your   
history that not tons of people know? Take, I don't know, a romance for example, a good adventure. Just   
something to start the thing out, than you can give your history a whole new twist, leave out anything you   
don't want in there, you're the boss of this thing, I'm just the lowly muse." She told him, grabbing a   
notebook, "Also, stay away from poetry of any sort, I've read what you've written…not good, but not   
horrible. Let's face it, the life of a poet isn't at all promising for you." She advised  
  
After about another two hours of this, and Cleo claiming repeatedly that Spike could do this if he truly   
tried, he finally put together an opening.   
"So? What do you think? Doesn't sound bloody awful?" Spike questioned, handing Cleo the notebook.  
Her green eyes darting over the paper, "Coulda been better…" She answered, ducking the 3 notebooks that   
were aimed at her head.  
"What? I'm your muse! I'm supposed to tell you when things are wrong!" She defended, hiding behind   
the beat up armchair.  
  
A/N: First fanfic, kinda really pointless, tell me what you think please! Flaming is welcome, but only if it's   
stated diplomatically =)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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